Today I’m reviewing “NoMeansNo: From Obscurity to Oblivion: An Oral History,” by Jason Lamb, with Paul Prescott, published this past January, by PM Press. Definitely one of the best band histories I’ve ever read. It is told through short interview clips of band members, friends, associates, and fans, interspersed with tons of beautiful album art, posters, and photographs. It’s raw, and honest, and incredibly funny, and will leave you with a new appreciation for this influential band.
This book is so good that I had to put it down after the first couple of pages so that I could turn on my stereo. And then I continued reading while blasting “Wrong,” and “Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy,” and didn’t put it down again until “The Day Everything Became Isolated and Destroyed” had played through twice.
Brendan Canty (Fugazi) said NoMeansNo reminded him of the Minutemen. I like this comparison. Both bands were characterized by hard thumping basslines, intricate guitar work, super tight musicianship, with a jazzy, funky, but entirely punk sound. And with lyrics much more sophisticated and intelligent than many of their contemporaries. Mike Watt, bassist for the Minutemen, said he loved NoMeansNo.
Of course, being a fan, I already knew what great musicians they were. What I didn’t know (but probably should have guessed) was that the Wright brothers, John (Drums) and Rob (Bass) were trained on classical music and jazz. And that they were fans of an eclectic mix of different genres. It warmed my heart to read how they would set aside special time on every tour, usually during a night drive, to listen reverently to the Residents’s “Mark of the Mole” in its entirety. That is dedication and good taste!
On the 10th anniversary of the Alternative Tentacles record label, Jello Biafra put out a compilation called Virus 100, featuring cover versions of Dead Kennedys songs performed by various artists. Everyone thought NoMeansNo would choose one of the edgier DK anthems and blast the hell out of it. Instead, they did an a cappella version of “Forward To Death.” I had totally forgotten about that cover until I read this book. Had to go back and listen to it again. It was awesome! They each did a different instrument with their voice. A real testament to their musical talent and quirky sense of humor.
I also really loved the story about when they were in the San Francisco Bay Area and crashed at the home of Kamala Parks (Gilman Street, Maximum Rock and Roll, and Kamala & the Karnivores). Instead of ogling her extensive collection of punk records, they went to straight to her dad’s collection, getting really excited by all his Mahler records. It reminded me of the first time I met the parents of a girl I was dating in high school. Instead of grilling me about my intentions with his daughter, her father asked me if I liked jazz, and promptly started playing me a selection of his favorite free jazz artists, Cecil Taylor and Albert Ayler. Perhaps one reason NoMeansNo always resonated so much with me is our shared appreciation for jazz, classical, and weird stuff, like the Residents.
Another thing I liked about this book was hearing so many people saying what nice and decent guys they were. When touring, and crashing at other people’s homes, they had a reputation for leaving the house cleaner than they found it. No matter where they stayed. They always did the dishes, too. And sometimes vacuumed. They never trashed the place, or acted like brats, as so many other punks routinely did. They were real mensches in a scene where so many other guys thought that being punk meant fucking shit up and being a dick.
They were super nice, but real pranksters, too. And this book is chock full of anecdotes about their various practical jokes. I found it particularly amusing to read about the tricks they played on some of the more hard-edged punks of the era, like Jello Biafra and Henry Rollins. Indeed, when Jason Lamb read some of these stories aloud at Punks With Books, May 26, 2024, he had the audience, and other panelists, in stitches. I feel blessed to have been part of this event, along with Paul Prescott, Michelle Cruz Gonzales, Juanita Mantz, Billy Bragg, and James Tracy. If interested, you can see a clip of that event here: https://youtu.be/9_dbfJZlPTo
I highly recommend “NoMeansNo: From Obscurity to Oblivion: An Oral History.” It’s a fun read. You’ll probably learn something interesting from it. And, with its large format and color images, it’ll look great on your coffee table. Unless, of course, you’re still living a punk lifestyle and don’t have a coffee table. In which case, it’ll look great on your floor. Or on your milk crate. Or, as in my case, on my bed with the pile of other books I’m reading.
Michelle Cruz Gonzales’s “The Spitboy Rule: Tales of a Xicana in a Female Punk Band,” is one of the best rock memoirs I have ever read. It honestly portrays much of what made the 1990s punk scene beautiful, and much of what made it ugly, too. But what really makes this book great is how eloquently, and passionately, Gonzales writes about how it shaped her own personal growth and identity as a working-class woman of color.
First, some of that beauty. $5 live shows. DIY performance spaces and organizations like Gillman Street, Klub Komotion and Epicenter Zone. The political activism. And, of course, the raw energy of bands like Spitboy. Mimi Thi Nguyen’s preface does a great job of anchoring the book in its historical context (e.g., Gulf War, Rodney King, and the rarity, even in the San Francisco Bay Area, of an all-women, anarchist feminist band). Which brings us to some of the ugliness. In spite of the leftwing politics of so many of the bands, and fans, it was still a straight, white, male-dominated scene. Sexism, racism, and homophobia were always present, sometimes overtly, and other times subtly, in the form of “colorblindness,” or the uncritical exercise of privilege.
Many of us were, in fact, very self-critical. But we were also young and inexperienced. Sometimes we came up with good analyses and effective solutions. Other times, well… Let me share one of my favorite parts of the book, when Spitboy is playing in Washington, D.C., with members of Bikini Kill in the audience. Before their set, a tall guy comes up to Gonzales and asks if the men have to stand in the back of the room, like they were told to do during a Bikini Kill set. Irate, Gonzales announces to the audience that men do not have to stand in the back. “We’re not a riot grrrl band.” The room goes silent. So, Spitboy’s lead singer, Adrienne, follows with “Please don’t block a woman’s view; don’t stand in front of someone who is shorter than you are. Just use common sense.”
The first time I experienced the men-in-the-back rule, I willingly complied. The mosh pit was notoriously dominated by big, aggressive dudes, and sometimes outright bullies. And even though I considered myself a feminist, I am tall and probably quite often blocked the view of shorter people without even realizing it. So, it seemed a fair and reasonable compromise to me. However, Spitboy’s less authoritarian message would have really resonated with me, and would have been a much more effective reminder for well-meaning big guys to pay better attention to our oversized footprint.
One of the most powerful chapters in the book is titled Race, Class and Spitboy. It highlights how easily a person from a marginalized group can become invisible to those around them, even when those people are friends, and even when they, themselves, have leftist politics. In one scene, Gonzales introduces her bandmates to her working-class abuela, in East Los Angeles. The band is uncharacteristically quiet and awkward. No one asks her grandmother any questions or tries to get to know her. One of the bandmember’s has a bemused expression similar to the expression she had when Gonzales explained that her two siblings have two different dads, both different from her own dad. Reading this now, I think, what’s so hard to get? Her mom was poor. They lived on welfare. Her dad was abusive. They had to leave him. Tragic and traumatic, but not uncommon, especially for working-class women. Yet somehow this was perplexing to her middle-class bandmates who hadn't experienced such things. I saw some of this same kind of perplexion, or obliviousness, growing up, when many of my middle-class peers assumed my best friend, was working-class and Xicana, was middle-class and white, like them, somehow overlooking the clue in her surname.
This invisibility becomes even more glaring, and ironic, when a white riot grrrl accuses Spitboy of cultural appropriation for naming their 3rd album “Mi Cuerpo Es Mio.” But reflecting back on this incident, Gonzales gains some important insight, too. That her own anger at being accused of racism by a riot grrrl “who couldn't tell a person of color when she was looking right at one,” was actually a mask for the sadness she felt because people didn’t see who she really was, and that she had allowed that to happen.
There are many other moments like this in the book, but you’ll have to pick up a copy and read those for yourself. Likewise, if you want to know why they called themselves Spitboy, or what the Spitboy rule is. You won’t be disappointed. It’s a great book, with lots of rare fliers and posters, as well as stories of touring and performing that range from humorous to frightening. But one last thing I’d like to say in closing is that it’s tragic that Spitboy didn’t get to open for Fugazi, at San Francisco’s Fort Mason Center, on May Day, 1993—a regret that was referenced twice in the book, once in the preface, and again toward the end. The significance is that Fugazi was a band that meant a lot to Spitboy, and to so many of us in the DIY punk scene. Also, because it was such a seminal show. I was there. I was the guy doling out free condoms to anyone who asked, doing my DIY part to stop the spread of HIV. I also gave a speech at the beginning of the show about the Haymarket martyrs, and the anarchist history of May Day. It was a fantastic show, and a great moment in my life. But if Spitboy had played, it would have been one of the greatest punk shows ever.